Red and Black
by EvilGiggles
Summary: An ancient evil is after Richie, Methos has another dark secret, and the final destruction of the Watchers may be the only way to save the world. (first time writing. WIP. AU. Please be kind!)
1. Once Upon Atrocity

Red and Black - Rough Draft - AU Story. Basic Storyline and Dialogue. --I do not own any character that appears in the Highlander series, movies or published works. OC's I do claim, but I will gladly give permission to any who wish to use them.—

I'm trying to get the basic story and characters together, so if things are confusing...chin up! I'll get them sorted out. Reviews are welcome, but keep it civil and constructive! Also, I try to label time changes, BCE is like BC and CE is AD, for those not familiar with Common Era dating method. There will be quite a few flashbacks in the first 3 chapters, but after that things should get right down to the nitty gritty. EDITING VERY NECESSARY

3,024 B.C.E. - Somewhere in Europe

"Mana!" he cried, blood running from his mouth, struggling against the two large men who were dragging him through the village. He was bleeding badly and was sure that his arm and some ribs were broken. As he fought to break free of his captors he was beaten, kicked across the face, thrown into the dirt. He could hear the last survivors of his village screaming, begging for their lives. The raiders were shouting and laughing. He looked around and saw his home burning, the headless corpse of his father draped over the water barrel. He searched the flames and through the people for _her_, as well as he could without moving from where the two men still held him.

The larger of the men wore black furs and leather boots. He was a giant compared to his compatriots. They held him near the center of the village, their hands around his arms and the smaller man held his arm around their prisoner's neck. The leader of these marauders was tall and lithe. He seemed to be enfolded in pure darkness, save his pale hands and face and his bright green eyes. As the leader approached them, the smaller one kicked their captive's knees, released his hold and allowed him to fall to the ground. He kneeled, spitting blood, in front of the demonic raiders. The leader looked him over, assessing him. He turned his head quickly as a young woman's scream caught his attention. The captive looked as well.

"What is this?" the leader asked, smiling. A young woman, scarcely older than a teen, was flailing and kicking the man who was pulling her toward the leader. She had pale eyes, like a misty morning sky. The palest blue, and bright. Her raven black hair a stark contrast. She cried and begged to be released, and fought to escape until she had no strength left.

"No..."the broken man whispered. The leader examined the girl. She tried to pull away from him as he touched her face. He grabbed her hair in his fist and held her still.

"Remove these," he pointed at her torn and filthy clothes.

She sobbed as her clothes were cut away from her. One of the men, tired of being scratched and fought bound her wrists behind her with tight leather straps. The leader tenderly ran his fingers across her chest, down her stomach, between her thighs, and pushed his finger slightly into her. A wicked smile glowed on his face.

The leader laughed. "I think it's time I had a new servant. Nir...show the girl her place."

The one he addressed as Nir pushed the girl to her knees then knotted her hair in his hand. He forced her to bow in front of the leader.

"You do not move unless I tell you to. You do not speak unless it is to answer me. Do you understand?"

The girl whimpered, but answered in a small broken voice, "No. I will die first."

Again the leader laughed. "You live and die at my leisure girl. However, I think I can grant your request, in a manner of speaking."

The captured village man, still on his knees, took advantage of his captor's distraction and lunged for the leader. "Stay away from her!" he yelled, knocking the leader to the ground. The man was too weak and injured too badly to keep him down for long. The leader rolled on top of the man and punched him several times, then got up. The man rolled over onto his stomach and strained trying to push himself up. The giant stepped hard on his back, snapping the man's spine. He kicked him over onto his back.

"Big mistake little man," the giant picked up a spear from the ground and drove it through the man's chest.

"Methos!" the girl screamed.

All was black.

Seacouver, May 3, 2000 C.E.

Adam Pierson stalked into Joe's bar, dripping from the torrential downpour going on outside.

"You look like a drowned rat," Joe teased.

"Well why don't you do something useful by getting this rat something besides water to drown himself in," the ancient, soggy Immortal complained.

Joe Dawson chuckled while he got a green bottle of some imported ale out of the ice box and set it in front of his friend.

"So," asked Adam impatiently, "What is it that couldn't wait until the Great Flood had passed?"

"We think Richie may be in trouble. Imagine that. Duncan asked me to check some things out and I think I may need you to break into the Watchers system for me.

Joe grabbed a plain manilla envelope from beneath the bar and handed it to Adam.

"Michael Watkins took these pictures a few nights ago near my bar in Paris while he was chronicling his charge, Dana Shea."

Methos, Adam Pierson in his current incarnation both Watcher and supposedly new Immortal, opened the envelope and pulled out four glossy pictures. The first two he could only see Richie and two female figures, one faced off against Richie; his sword was drawn. One woman's coal black hair hung over her face on the camera side, obscuring it. She was about the same height as Richie. Her long black, looked to be leather, coat hid most of her body. The other, Dana, had deep but bright red hair that was bound in a tight braid and dangled over her left shoulder, lightly brushing her breast. She stood between and somewhat to the side of Richie and the unknown woman. She faced him, her hands down near her hips, palms out, fingers outstretched, apparently showing that she did not intend to challenge them. The next photo showed Richie falling to the ground and the black haired woman recoiled. A black-red mist floated between them, frozen in time on the glossy photo paper. Somewhere out of view of Michael's lens someone was firing on them.

"Damn...do we know who was shooting?" Adam asked glancing up from the photographs.

"No. Michael said it by the time he looked in the direction the shots came from the street was empty. He probably ducked into an alleyway or a car."

Adam nodded. He looked at the next picture Richie was on the ground, Dana pulling him toward a gray, or maybe blue, sedan. But it was the final picture that nearly stopped Methos' heart. The dark haired woman had turned full face toward Michael's position and he was able to capture her image perfectly. Her flawless ghost white face grimaced in pain, ice blue eyes seemed to pierce his through the photo. Raven black hair messily thrown to one side. Adam sucked in a sharp breath.

"Oh my god..." he whispered.

"What is it?" Joe asked, surprised at his normally stoic friend's reaction.

"I...Joe...what business does Richie have with this woman? The one the Watchers can't identify."

"We don't know. Richie's watcher lost track of him in the countryside a few days ago. Duncan called me this morning and said the boat was trashed and Richie was nowhere to be found. Michael sent me these pictures overnight air mail after I asked him if there was anything he could find out about his whereabouts the past week. This woman is apparently Immortal, judging from her reaction, or lack thereof, to being shot. Michael says after she was hit, she just straightened up and walked into an alleyway like nothing happened. I was going to scan all of the pictures and email them to Duncan as soon as he calls in. Dana drove away with Richie, but Michael hasn't been able to see if he's still there or not."

"Don't send those pictures," said Adam, urgency overshadowed his normally dry tone. "Tell Duncan to stay out of this. I'll go to Paris. Tell him to let me handle it."

"Adam?"

"Joe...this is not just a case of my overdeveloped, thanks in no small part to a certain Highlander, sense of honor. This situation will quickly become deadly. I will save Richie if I can, but if he has done something to get her after his head, there may not be anything I can do about it."

"Who is she? How do you know she's after his head? The Watchers don't seem to have any information on her," Joe said, picking up his cane and walking stiff legged around the bar.

"Well, Dana Shea doesn't take heads unless she is challenged. We were friends, a couple centuries ago. He wouldn't have had any reason to pull his sword on her, especially in public."

"So you think he must have been protecting himself from that woman?"

"Yes. And if she's after him, he's in big trouble."

"But then who shot them?" Joe asked, quickly becoming confused.

"I have no idea," Adam sighed. "Perhaps an accomplice of the woman's who did not intend for the bullets to pass through him and into her. Perhaps a rogue Watcher trying ambush all of them. Maybe even a common criminal who got a bit ahead of himself." the Immortal answered, shrugging his shoulders.

"So, how do you know this mystery woman Adam? Who is she?"

"As far as you're concerned I don't know her. And you must keep the Watchers from following her. Promise me."

"I can't do that. Even if I wanted to, I don't have that kind of pull with the Council. Not anymore," Joe held his free hand out.

"It is imperative that the Watchers and MacLeod stay as far away from her as possible. If I have to deal with the Watchers myself, so be it."

"Deal with them how? You can't expect to just waltz up there and tell them to ignore this. It doesn't work that way."

"I have to go." Adam rose from his perch at the bar and headed for the door.

"Oh no you don't! Just what exactly do you plan on doing when they don't see things your way?"

"Force the issue." Something old and sinister tainted Methos' remark.

"What are you going to do! Kill them!!!! You can't be serious!"

"Deadly serious Joe. Whatever Richie has done, he's gotten himself in way over his head. And having the Watchers get involved will make matters a thousand times worse. This is a much bigger problem than just saving Richie."

"I don't understand."

"I know...Joe I wish it wasn't like this...I would explain everything if I could...but it's not that simple. You have to trust me Joe."

"How is this one woman so..."

"Joe! Please..." Adam interrupted. "you have to trust me and stay out of this."

"I can't! I won't! And I won't let you go around killing innocent people for some mysterious woman. I don't believe that this one person could possibly be that dangerous." Joe yelled. He couldn't believe what Adam was saying. None of it made sense.

"It's complicated Joe."

"I don't care! You can't expect me to sit back and let you threaten and possibly kill people that have been OUR friends for years! They won't get involved, you know that. They will only observe."

"It's not that simple. I have to go."

"Adam."

"Stay out of it Joe. And you had better tell MacLeod the same. I don't want to have to take his head over this."

"You wouldn't!" Joe nearly screamed.

"I most certainly would."

Methos pushed the door open hard and let it slam behind him.

"You're a cold son of a bitch Methos! I won't let you do this!" Joe called. He reached for the phone and frantically dialed Mac's number.

Methos hailed a cab back to his apartment uptown. He hurried out of the rain and into his apartment. He threw his soaked duster on the floor and stripped off his sweater and his slacks, then his undergarments as he headed to the bathroom. He turned the shower on full heat and stepped in. The scolding water flowed in sheets down his thin muscular body. He rested his back against the wall for a moment, and could hold back no longer. He punched the side wall of the shower as hard as he could, breaking some of the tiles, and his hand. Blood flowed from his knuckles. Then the wave of tears came. He covered his face with his bloody hands and slid down the wall. The water was ice cold by the time he was able to pull himself together and step out of the shower, still sobbing lightly. After donning a pair of black boxer shorts and a t-shirt he went to his liquor cabinet and pulled out a full bottle of 120 year old wine. When he finished that, he took another. Four bottles later he finally passed out on the living room sofa. His dreams that night were not mere dreams, but memories of the road that eventually led to where he was now...what he had gained, what he had lost, and what he had eventually thrown away. And he was about to risk everything again to save Richie....to save _her_...perhaps to save all of them.

Mongolian Desert - August 2,224 B.C.E.

"Mana!" he gasped, sitting bolt upright on his bed roll. Sweat poured from his forehead and down his back. The frail shadow of his slave trembled next to him kneeling, head bowed, waiting for him to awaken and give her leave to perform her morning duties. The Horseman known as Death looked around and realized he'd had another nightmare.

"Bring me water and food girl," he told the slave, out of breath slightly.

Kronos shoved past the girl as he entered the tent.

"You don't look well, brother," the one feared as Pestilence commented.

"Another damned nightmare," Methos answered.

"That's the third time in as many days. What troubles you so much to invade your dreams?"

Methos wiped his face on a scrap of cloth and rose to get dressed.

"I do not know. I dream of this woman I can't recall having met in a place I can't recall having been. But nontheless, I am terrified in these dreams."

"Perhaps our resident witch can divine an answer for you?" Kronos suggested.

"Perhaps. Or at the least take my mind off of this. She is at least good for that."

He ate barely a quarter of the food his girl brought him and was not interested at all in bedding her, as was his daily custom. Instead he went to find Cassandra, the Immortal slave they kept in the camp, who was also from what they had seen endowed with powers of healing and clairvoyance.

"They are dreams," she snapped when he asked for her help. "How should I know what they're about OR how to stop them."

Methos struck her hard across the face. "We both know you can tell me what they mean, witch."

She recovered from her scolding and scowled. "Fine. I will try." She closed her eyes and lightly touched his face.

"I see a woman..you love her...but...you do not desire her. I see before...the man before Death...the man that death tried to claim and failed. You are...oh god...pain...so much pain...sorrow...fear...you cannot reach her...she screams for you" Cassandra opened her eyes. They were pure white. Methos gasped.

"Pain...she knows pain greater than even you could inflict...suffering...but now she is...no..."

"What is it?"

"She wears your mask...Death's face in front of her own...yet what you defy she is owned by...she is coming"

Cassandra fell unconscious to the ground. Methos scooped her up and took her to his tent.. He left her there to rest while he went to find Kronos.

Silas and Caspian sparred just outside the camp. Caspian small but vicious, Silas a great axe wielding beast in a human shell. Their bout was brutal and savage, blade of sword and axe sparking as they collided. The morning sun gleamed on the cutting edges, islands of ruddy brown stood out where blood had not yet been cleaned from their surfaces. Methos checked the horse's pens. Kronos' muddy colored stallion was not there. He saddled and mounted his own white stud and rode out of the camp, westward. Kronos had mentioned the previous night that he wanted to scout west for villages or encampments. He trotted his horse over the spiky patches of grass. They were camped near one of the only sources of fresh water for miles and webs of grass and desert trees sprawled over the landscape. It wasn't long before he caught up to his brother in arms.

"Methos. Did your woman have any revelations about your dreams?"

"I think she actually did well to increase my unease of these visions."

"Oh, they're visions now. This _is_ serious," Kronos laughed.

"Whatever they are...I think it would be best if we were especially on our guard for a while."

"We are the Four Horsemen, Methos. No force can withstand us. I think you take these...visions...for more than they are worth."

"We shall see."

France - May 4th, 2000 

"Mac. It's Joe. Call me at the bar as soon as you get this message. It's Adam. It's bad." Duncan saved the message and clicked his cell phone off. He dialed Joe's number quickly and put the phone up to his ear. His tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of his Thunderbird nervously. Methos and bad were two things that made Duncan MacLeod very nervous when they were in reference to each other.

"Joe's Place, this is Mike, how can I help you," the barback answered the phone.

"Hi Mike. It's Duncan. Is Joe there?"

"Haven't seen him. Have you tried his place?"

"No. Not yet. I'll do that now. Thanks Mike." He hung up the phone and dialed Joe's Apartment.

"Hello?" the familiar voice answered sounding haggard.

"Joe. It's Duncan. What's going on? What's wrong with Adam? Is everything ok?"

"Mac, thank god. No everything is not ok. Our old man is about to go on a hunt and may end up minus about 10 pounds above the shoulders for his trouble."

"What is going on Joe?"

"I was asking Adam to help find out what's going on with Richie. He got all cryptic on me and told me that we basically had to ignore the existence of this woman that seems to be after Richie and never speak of her again or else. But he wouldn't say why. When I told him that wasn't realistic he got pretty upset and said he would take care of it himself, even if that meant wiping out all of our evidence and anyone that had seen it or heard of her. When he's done, he knows the remaining Watchers Council will be out for his head in the not metaphorical sense. He's willing to risk it. Duncan, I don't think he's blowing smoke on this one."

"Why would he do this?"

"I don't know. He's keeping some sort of secret concerning this woman. He won't budge on it. And whatever it is about this lady, he's willing to go all the way. He said he would try to save Richie from her, but he didn't sound too hopeful about it. He's never requested that the Watchers just ignore an Immortal. In fact, he's always been an advocate of the Watchers if for no other reason than to know who's doing what and where so he could stay low. I want to know why this time is different. He is intent on killing innocent people. And you if you try to stop him."

"Is he already in Paris?"

"I don't think so, but he's on his way.."

"Alright. But if I can't talk some sense into him..."

"Do what you have to do. Feel what you will about the Watchers, they don't deserve to be slaughtered."

"I agree Joe. Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I'll keep you updated."

"One more thing," Joe added. "Do you know an Immortal named Dana Shea?"

"No...I don't think so," Duncan answered. "Why?"

"She was there, in the pictures we have of Richie faced off against this strange woman. She might be able to give you more information."

"Can you give me an address or anything for her?" MacLeod inquired.

"Yeah, I'll text you the address."

"Ok. I'll try to talk to her."

"Thanks Mac. I owe you."

"What else is new." Duncan joked, wearily.

"Watch your head."

Seacouver - May 4, 2000 C.E.

Methos packed a few clothes and some of his credentials for his trip. He placed a revolver and a hunting knife along with the proper paperwork to transport them in one of his suitcases. He was adept at concealing his sword while traveling, so that wasn't an issue. His flight was to depart at 2 pm, and it was already almost noon. He rushed with the last of his preparations and called for a taxi to pick him up from his flat. His stomach had been queasy all morning, not from the wine but from the mere thought of what he was about to do. Methos had long abandoned his life as a murderer. He had no desire to reprise that role. But it was something that had to be done. For all their sakes.

The old Immortal tried to think of reasons _she_ would be after Richie, not that she ever really needed a reason for such things in the past. Even if he could save Richie from her, there was still the matter of keeping the Watchers from trying to follow her. Keeping them from figuring out that she was not at all what they believed. After the little display by the bar, they had no reason not to assume she was Immortal. If Michael had just left his camera behind, he thought, there would be no proof. It could be denied. Methos almost laughed that something as small and simple as a photograph could pose such a threat. So much depended on keeping this dirty little secret. The future of his kind, of the mortals who lived their lives never knowing how close they were to legends and to ruin. He tried to convince himself it was for the greater good, but it provided no comfort. No satisfaction came from knowing what he was going to do was necessary to prevent what, if allowed, could escalate into all out war . The most painful aspect of it all was that he could not confide in his closest friends. That he may have to sacrifice Richie, maybe even MacLeod. He hoped Dana would stay out of it too. She had been a good friend to Methos for a time and he didn't want to add her head to the growing list. He had turned his back on them, likely for the last time. There would be no forgiveness this time. Not like there had been when Kronos had returned and they tried to relive the glory days of the Four Horsemen. Not like there had been when he nearly killed Duncan and Amanda to retrieve the Methuselah Stone so he could try to save Alexa. No. No more second chances. From that point on, he would be alone.

Adam Pierson boarded the plane for Paris. He changed planes twice, once in Dallas and once in Washington D.C. On the final leg of the flight, he drifted into his thoughts, his head resting against the small window of the plane. He lost himself in memories of millennia past.

Mongolia - October 2,224 B.C.E.

"There is a caravan moving west along the mountain foot hills. I wish to strike it tonight." Kronos told his comrades.

"Why such a small conquest when there is a town just south?" asked Caspian through a hunk of roasted pork.

"Because we need supplies and I want to replace the three slaves whose bones you decided to sharpen your blade on. Besides that, I wish it and that's the only reason you need concern yourself with." Kronos snapped..

When the quartet was through with their meals, they readied their horses and weapons. The ride to the caravan wouldn't be a long one, fortunately. Kronos wanted to strike before daylight so their horses were likely still unhitched from the wagons, preventing the caravan from a quick escape. After 10 minutes of hard riding they could see the camp. The main fire drew the Horsemen like moths.

"Silas, Caspian. Circle around to the far side of the encampment. We will come in from both sides," whispered Death.

They nodded and trotted their horses to the other side of the camp, unseen. Kronos was the first to set his horse into a dead run for the camp. Methos followed close behind. Silas and Caspian rode headlong toward them. They drew their swords, and Silas his axe, shouting their own frightful war cries. Only two people were outside of a wagon or tent. An old man who was cut down easily by Kronos' blade, and a woman who ran for one of the hard covered wagons.

"Ravi! Ivash! Raiders!" the girl shouted. She squealed and kicked when Methos rode by and scooped her up onto his horse. Three men came out of their tents, one with a sword and two with only large sticks to fend off the invaders. Caspian jumped from his horse and tackled one of the men brandishing a stick. He punched the man, not more than a boy really, in the throat until his windpipe collapsed and he was left gasping for air. Then Caspian, the most inhuman of the Horsemen, took the stick from the boy's hand and drove it through the boy's eye socket.

Silas was happy just smashing things with his axe.

Kronos hopped from his horse and easily took the sword man and his companion. Methos struggled with the girl. She was still screaming and kicking and biting. It was becoming difficult to keep his horse under control and keep the girl on it.

None of the Four Horsemen noticed the hooded figure, seemingly dressed in shadow itself, climb calmly down from one of the wagons. The being strode quickly, serenely, toward the voice of the screaming girl. Methos didn't notice the form until it was standing in front of his mount. The stud reared back in a panic as the form came within striking distance. The dark person moved steadily toward them. Methos tried desperately to keep his steed under control. Finally Methos and the girl were thrown from the horse, which then bolted away towards its own camp. The girl was knocked out by the fall. Methos scrambled to his feet and picked up his sword. The shadow, still and quiet, waited.

"You will suffer," Methos hissed. He swung his blade in a broad arc, slashing the shadow across its torso. The being stumbled a few steps back and held its chest for a moment. As Methos stepped in to strike again, the shadowy figure spun quickly around Death. He froze when he felt a sharp point pressed into his back and the edge of a blade hard against the back of his neck. It stung, the razor sharp blade cut slightly into his skin.

"Drop your sword and be still," the unearthly, but markedly female voice, growled.

She then spoke loudly so that her captive's friends would hear her. "Your comrade is very close to losing his worthless head. Leave now, or all of you shall die, beginning with this one." She pressed the blades harder into him. She held him and her blades in such a way that if he tried to escape or fight her she would easily be able to behead him before he moved more than a few inches. She walked him to the middle of the camp then kicked him hard in the back of the knees. Her blades followed their places as he fell to the ground. Another young man peeked out of one of the wagons. She motioned to him and said something that was unintelligible to the four brothers. The boy approached them carrying rope. He knelt beneath the hooded woman's blades and tied Methos' hands together tight. She said something else and the boy ran back to the wagon. She moved the blade from his back so both of her curved swords were pressing into the flesh of his neck. Methos was afraid, for the first time in centuries.

For the almost full minute that it took for their raid to go sour, Kronos, Caspian and Silas were frozen. There was Death, bowed helplessly before this woman. They dared not move to strike. It was easy to see that by the time they reached her she would have easily taken their beloved brother's head. Kronos walked slowly toward them.

"Put those away, girl" he hissed.

"Come no closer, dog." she snapped.

"If you kill him, I will shred you. But not before I break you."

She laughed. "I've withstood far more menacing creatures than you pathetic sand snakes."

"Are you brave or just stupid", Kronos taunted, intrigued and in some small way aroused by the audacity of the girl.

"Enough of this foolishness!" she spat and pushed the blades even harder into Methos' neck. His blood ran freely down the rune etched surface of the swords. Methos hissed in pain and rage. And fear.

"Don't be stupid woman...if you kill him we will make sure that you and all of these wretches suffer tremendously."

"A fate you had already assigned us. Please, such empty threats from such a weak transparent man. Leave now or die. Those are your choices."

Kronos regarded her, and was torn between his desires. His desire to preserve the life of his beloved brother. His desire to take this remarkable creature as his own. And, his desire to rip the insufferable woman to bits. After a long moment, he decided on the former of the three.

"War. Famine. Fall back to our camp." he ordered.

"What?!" Caspian protested. "We can destroy this insignificant pest! Surely you don't mean to..."

"Do as I say, idiot. I am not willing to sacrifice our brother." Kronos turned and locked eyes with the fierce woman. "But know this, we will hunt you down and one day you will fall by my hand."

He stalked to his horse, mounted and angrily rode back to his camp, Silas and Caspian close behind.

The woman lowered her blades and sheathed them beneath her cloak. Her hands were small, frail looking, but when she grabbed Methos' arms and pulled him to his feet he was surprised by her strength. Her grip was as firm as any man's, tight and powerful. He pulled away from her, spun and attempted kick her legs out from under her. She sidestepped his attack easily and swept her foot into his other leg, causing him to tumble clumsily to the ground. The woman dragged him by his ankle to one of the wagons as if he were no more trouble than a bag of grain. She tied his hands to one of the wagons hard wooden wheels.

Methos looked up at the shrouded female. "Who are you?" he asked flatly, trying not to betray his fear. With no blade and his hands trapped behind him he was defenseless.

She looked into his painted face and pulled back the hood of her cloak. Methos took in a sharp breath, the radiant face of his nightmare woman was revealed beneath the shadow's hood.

"For you, I am Death," she replied, in the same cold tone he spoke in when his own victims asked that very question.

--End Section One—

France - April 29, 2,000 C.E. 

Richie leaned his orange and white motorcycle hard around the tight curves of the narrow back country road. He passed by the trees, bright and lush with new foliage, so quickly they formed an almost solid wall of brown and green. The leaves rustled in the light breeze. The pre-dawn light seemed to make the colors brighter, almost ethereal. Richie glanced nervously in his mirrors. A dark specter was gaining on him fast. The thing was nearly formless, except for it's eyes. Red eyes glowing like city stop lights. It's body was a chaotic black mass. Richie's heart jack-  
hammered in his chest. The thing had pursued him from the dank seemingly abandoned storm shelter, or maybe root cellar, that he had stumbled on during his ride in the French country side. There had been bad storms a few nights before and it looked like the flash floods had cleared ages of dirt and undergrowth away from the ancient earth bound doors. He'd had just enough time to pocket two old coins and tie the unique black bladed sword he had found in there into the sleeve on the side of his bike with his own sword. As the creature gained, he regretted venturing through those doors. The thing came up on him fast and reached out an arm and a withered hand from the ink black _almost_ body. Richie pulled back hard on the throttle trying to pull away just as the sun finally broke above the jagged horizon. He was surprised and most certainly relieved to see the thing recoil and head into the darkness of the trees. Richie slowed and slid his bike sideways to a stop, engine still rumbling beneath him. He scanned the trees for the creature. He saw only the leaves dancing happily in the morning breeze, a few birds chirped and cooed. He turned his bike and headed fast back toward the city. '_Whatever the hell that was, it's gone now...and I am getting the fuck out of here.' _

It watched the boy from the dark safety of the woods, sniffing the air, remembering his scent. Once the day passed it would take up it's quarry again. Until then, it slid into the soft ground and slept.

Richie made it back to the city limits of Paris just after 8 o'clock in the morning. He made it back to the barge and parked the bike in his usual spot on the deck. Richie was one of only three people who had spare keys to MacLeod's barge, which Duncan allowed his friends to use while he was living abroad. Richie had been staying there for the past two days while he was in Paris visiting a friend of his from highschool who had made quite a career as an artist in the past few years. He untied the swords from the side of his bike; his plus the one he had taken from the creepy not-as-abandoned-as-he-thought cellar. He quickly unlocked the door and slipped inside, re-locking the door behind him. He dropped his helmet and jacket on the couch and took the swords to the dining room table. After the protective canvas was unwrapped, he inspected the new blade. The hilt was silver, from what he could tell through the parts that weren't almost black with ages of tarnish. The pommel was twisted in a serpentine shape, capped by a flawlessly sculpted dragon's head. The hand guards were curved toward the blade, somewhat taking on the shape of draconic wings, but mostly looking like jagged sickles. The blade of the sword itself was deep ebony, almost glassy. It didn't seem that it was made of steel, or any other metal for that matter, but it was hard and very sharp. Not a single nick marred the strange blade. Alien runes were etched in the center down the entire length of the sword, adding to it's mystery. Richie tried it in his hand, testing the weight and balance. It felt like an extension of his arm, flowing with his motions. He had never encountered a more perfect weapon. Not that he had much experience with swords other than his own, but from what MacLeod had taught him, he could hazard a guess that this particular blade was crafted by a true master. He eventually put the sword down next to his and headed for the shower. His clothes were muddy and his jeans were more ripped than they had been before his little adventure.

"Shower and a nap...that's your agenda today Richie my man." he said to himself. The sudden thought of the shadow beast that had chased him out of the cellar sent a shiver down his spine. '_Well, it didn't follow me here...so relax big guy...you're free and clear like always'_ he thought. Another thing he would later regret.

France - April 29th, 2,000 C.E. - 7:15pm

The creature rose from the ground just after dusk. He shook loose dirt from his shoulders and straightened his moth eaten cloak. He came out of the woods and stood at the side of the narrow street. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. The road looked strange to him, so he bent down and touched the asphalt. He dragged his finger nails across the rough black surface. A plane flew low overhead. He threw his head back, looked skyward and followed it with his eyes until it disappeared behind a cloud. Looking around some more he could see the faint glow of light over the horizon. He decided to follow the road he had chased the masked boy riding the loud thing on earlier that day. He needed to feed, he was starving. Thoughts raced through his mind too fast to concentrate on. Only hunger stood out. But it wasn't the hunger he was used to, no, this was much more. Powerful, compelling, addictive. He craved the thing that had awakened him. So he followed the road and searched for the scent of his prey.

Paris - April 29th, 2,000 C.E. - 8pm

Miranda sat motionless on the sofa watching the security tape on the large television. A young man in a leather jacket, jeans and motocross boots wandered through the cellar, picked up a few coins that were scattered on the floor. She watched as he moved to the plain stone crypt and ran his fingers across the blade of the long black sword on its lid. He picked it up, weighed it in his hands, tested the sharpness of the blade by stroking it across his palm. In the black and white video, the gash he created seeped black molasses. Curious. Why would he cut himself?

"Foolish boy," she muttered.

Something startled him in the darkness. He took the blade and stuffed the coins in his jeans pocket and ran to the cellar door. The lid of the crypt shifted slowly.

"Damn." she cursed.

A tall, slender man entered the room from the foyer. His hair was deep red, straight and long, flowing down the back of his black suit jacket. His bright hazel eyes moved to her.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked casually.

"We have a small problem, Seth. It would appear we had a minor break in. The boy took a certain black sword." she said dryly.

"Well, to him it's just a sword like any other, right? I mean, he doesn't know how to tap it."

"Er, mostly. That is not so much my worry as this," she pointed to the television.

They both watched the lid of the sarcophagus slide off it's perch and smash on the cement floor. A shadow rose from inside and flew fast as a jet through the cellar door after the boy.

"Oh. Yes, this could be a problem,"he commented, concern tinting his reply. "What do you suggest?"

She looked over to Seth, her cold white/blue eyes locking into his. "Our dear Father is surely hungry and disoriented. He will hide, even from us. He is too strong to bring down without the sword. Even for me. We should find the boy and retrieve the sword before He does."

"Who knows what trouble He could cause, not knowing the world anymore. He could..."

"Yes," she interjected. "It could be quite problematic. I'm scanning our external security tapes next. Maybe there will be some other clue. Some way to find him."

"I will search the countryside. Ask around. Maybe someone knows him." Seth offered.

"Good," she answered. "I will take the city. After I have looked into the cellar for any clues."

They rose simultaneously from the sofa and began their investigation.

Paris, April 29th, 2,000 C.E. - 11pm

Miranda didn't find any trace of their would-be thief on the outside cameras. He must have been too far from the main house. She figured from his attire and the tire marks in the mud near the cellar door that he was riding a motorcycle. Probably not a street bike. More likely a street modified dirt bike. Big...200cc at least. A short muddy tire track onto the pavement leaned to the left, toward the city. She hiked back to the house to get her car. The faster she found their burgler the better. The sword was just a sword to him. He didn't know it's true purpose. A good thing, as far as she was concerned. But if He followed the boy back...if He had the sword again, well, she didn't want to think too much about that just yet. As an afterthought, she wondered who was so daft as to leave the thing unprotected, on top of the resting place of the one who was the most dangerous person if allowed to possess it, no less. And that she would fire them. Immediately. The ride to Paris was only 15 minutes or so. She drove around the city, taking each side street that she could. After about 3 hours, she saw an orange and white dirt bike with American tags parked in front of an American blues bar on the east side of town. She drove around to the street behind the building and parked just at the corner of an alleyway. Miranda cautiously walked through the alleyway and into the bar. Smoke rolled out of the door as she opened it. The mix of cigarettes, cigars and cherry pipe tobacco was and combined in an odd aroma. A young man played an ocher Les Paul on stage, singing smoothly in English about lost love and opportunity. She scanned the tables and bar stools for her quarry. Finally, the boy walked out of the men's room and sat down on a stool at the far end of the bar. He talked casually with the bartender. They knew each other. She began to walk toward him. Miranda spoke softly to the man on the stool next to the boy.

"You need to find another seat," she said in a low resonating, almost double, voice.

Without acknowledgment of her presence or her comment, he rose and went to another seat at one of the low wood tables in the main area. She replaced the man at the stool and motioned to the bartender.

"Bloody Mary,"she said.

"Right away ma'am," the bartender answered.

She looked to the boy and he looked over at her and nodded..

"Hey,"he greeted.

"Hello," she returned. "Is that your bike out front?"

"Yeah. Why?" he said, wearily.

"Just wondering. I don't see many American tags out here. Most tourists either rent a car or take the busses," she explained.

"Is it that obvious that I'm American?"

"I heard you talking to the barkeep. It's hard to mask American English," she joked.

"I guess so. You here with somebody?" he asked hopefully.

"No. Just looking for someone," she admitted. "Let me get down to business. I am looking for someone who has something...of mine. Your bike looks a bit muddy. Been out in the country lately," she said, staring at him hard.

He stiffened. "Who are you?" he said as he slid off the bar stool.

"No one of consequence. Just seeking to retrieve what was taken. If you catch my meaning."

"Listen Lady, I don't want any trouble, so I'm going to get going, and I advise you not to try anything smart," he warned.

He walked swiftly towards the door. She paid for her drink and followed him out. She caught up to him just outside and grabbed his arm forcefully.

"Give me the sword, boy," she demanded.

He tried to pull his arm away, but her grip was amazingly strong.

"Get off me!" he yelled.

"You have no idea what you have done. Give it to me, and maybe you won't get hurt," she warned.

He stopped dead and his head snapped up. The familiar crackle and buzz of another Immortal enfolded his mind. He looked around, searching for something. _Awe, not now.... _he thought. Miranda was confused and looked around as well. She saw only a red headed woman looking at him, walking toward them. Miranda let go of his arm. No need to make a scene. That was just what she was trying to avoid by finding the kid before things got...bad.

He slinked to his bike and pulled a rapier out from beneath a canvas shroud strapped to the side of it.

"I'm Richard Ryan," he said, holding his sword down behind his leg, hiding it from passers by.

"Dana Shea, and I'm not looking to fight," she held her hands out.

"Looks like you're the only one," Richie retorted.

Miranda came close to Richie. "Give me the sword kid, and this won't get bloody."

He raised his rapier in a defensive position. "You're the one that's gonna get bloody if you don't back off!"

Dana was startled and darted between them. She spoke in a soft Irish accent. "Woah now, can ye not work this out then? Like nice boys and girls."

Before either Richie or Miranda could reply, a shot rang out from behind Richie. He fell forward. Another shot. Miranda recoiled and fell back a few steps. She saw a mans arm and a silver pistol peeking over the doorframe of a dark sedan 100 yards away. The man climbed slowly from the vehicle. Dana did not waste any time. She took the Richie by the arms and dragged him to her car, parked just a few feet away. She clicked the automatic locks on her keychain alarm, opened the back door and slung him in. Miranda turned to follow, but Dana had swung into the front seat, started the car and peeled away before she could stop her. Too many people had come out to see about all the gun shots for her to pursue, her way. Too many people for this stranger to finish what he had started. He backed up and returned to his car. She cursed under her breath and walked back to her car through the alley.

Paris - April 30th 2,000 C.E. - 8:45am

Richie sucked in a painful breath and sat up fast. Death was always painful to wake up from, even if it was a relief that he still had his head. He looked around the room he was in. It was completely unfamiliar. Decorated with paintings and weapons. A stone pentacle hung on the wall opposite the window. He was on a couch.

"Ah good, you're awake," came a velvety Irish voice from the kitchen.

He turned and saw Dana in the doorway.

"I've made some breakfast, if you're hungry. Help yourself. I hope you like corned beef hash and eggs?"

"Love it, thanks," he answered. He rose, stiff legs and sore chest, and walked to the kitchen. He noticed he wasn't wearing his own clothes, but slightly too small sweat pants and a big flannel shirt.

"I hope you don't mind, I changed you out of those bloody clothes. Can't have the upholstry stained now can we?" she smiled.

"No problem. Thanks. Really. I could have lost my head back there. That woman was not right, you know?" he said.

"My pleasure Richard."

"You can call me Richie."

"Richie. You are American?"

"Yup. Born and raised."

"Is this your first time in Paris?" she asked.

"Naw, I lived here for a while with, uh, well they were basically my foster parents." he shrugged.

"Ah. Do you still see them?"

"One of them. Duncan. My...er...mom...Tessa, she's dead."

"Oh...I'm sorry."

"It's ok," he waved his hand like he was swatting a fly. "I miss her, but I've learned to deal."

"Duncan. Hm...Scottish?"

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. As Scottish as it gets."

"Really," she said, pushing out her bottom lip and raising her eyebrows. She was impressed. The Clan MacLeod was legendary, even in Ireland. She often told the tales of Connor and Duncan MacLeod as a bedtime story to orphaned children during the famine. She would always smile inwardly, knowing that most of the unbelievable stories about the Immortal cousins were true. At least, according to Connor, they were true. She hadn't met his younger cousin, yet. "I've heard of him. What adventures you must have had," she joked.

"Some of which I could definitely have lived without," he returned.

Richie grabbed a plate and spooned a large heap of corned beef and a good portion of eggs onto it. Dana poured a large tumbler of orange juice and set it down in front of him at the breakfast table.

"Thanks again."

"Slainte," she raised her mug of black coffee.

"So, I hope you don't mind my getting in your business, but what in the world was going on between you and that young lady last night?" the pretty celtic Immortal asked.

Richie raised his finger, not wanting to be rude trying to talk through a mouth full of food.

"I'm not quite sure. She was asking me about this sword I found the other night, acting like it was hers. I guess she wanted it back."

"And...you do not want to give it to her?"

"Well, I don't really know if it's hers, you know? Besides, if she wasn't up to something, why would she just fly of the handle and threaten me? Most people would just try to buy it back or threaten the police or something. I think there's something more to this. Just a matter of what. Maybe _she_ stole that sword in the first place and now she's mad that now someone did to her what she did to someone else."

"Reasonable enough, I suppose. Good reason why you shouldn't pick up things you don't where they've been, eh?" she winked.

"Yeah, I could say the same to you. I could be a head hunter or some kind of pervert or something and here you are bringing me home, getting me NAKED and feeding me breakfast." he smiled.

"Well, lad, I can take care of my own head as well as other parts of a more personal sort!"

They both began laughing uncontrollably. Richie had to hold his hand over his mouth to keep his food from hitting the table...or the wall. Tears streamed down Dana's face and she nearly tipped over her chair. After a few minutes they were finally able to regain their composure. Richie finished his meal and began cleaning up the dishes.

"Hm..now then...was getting shot part of your escape plan?" she halfway joked.

"I don't even know what that was about...really,"

"Richie, do you have a place to stay? That's safe?"

"Yeah. I'm staying at Mac's...uh Duncan's...barge. It's pretty secure. I'll only be here a few more days anyhow. Then, I'm going back to the States."

"Well, if you need...you are welcome here," she offered.

"Thanks a lot, really. I'll keep it in mind. You know, just in case."

"Good."

"Um, do you mind if I get a shower before I head out?"

"No," she answered. "Of course I don't mind, here I'll get you a fresh towel and some soap."

They both headed off toward the bathroom. She walked in front of him, a fact that Richie was just fine with. That way, he could admire Dana's other, attributes. _Stop it Richie! _He thought. _She probably saved your life and just opened up her house to you, a perfect stranger. Have a little tact!_ He fully intended to head back to the barge after his shower. She, it turned out, had no intention on taking him. She had few friends in Paris and was glad for the company, impromptu as it was. She convinced him to stay another night. They stayed in her bedroom most of the day and the entire night. Talking, trading stories, trading glances. He was attractive and kind. She was beautiful and full of life. They both longed to take things to the next level, but neither made the leap. Richie could tell that she was much older, and a lot smarter than he was. If she were really the age that she appeared, he would be putting on his best moves. But more than he desired her, he respected her. He didn't want to insult her with unwanted advances, apparently oblivious that they would not have been at all unwanted. She was centuries his elder. Dana didn't want to take advantage of this young Immortal. Ones so young often became too deeply involved, reading too much into a casual encounter. They were usually too careless with their hearts. Around 4 o' clock, they fell asleep in each others arms.

Miranda drove to a motel just outside the city limits. The sign's faded crackling neon lights flickered and buzzed, giving everything within reach of the sign a pink tint. The letters read backward reflected off the glossy black surface of the roof of her Jaguar. Miranda was frustrated. She had him literally in her hands, and he still managed to slip away. She opened the center console to her right and pulled out her small silver mobile phone. She opened the phone, numbers backlit in a sickly green, and pushed one of the squishy rubber buttons. She scrolled through the phone list until she found the right one. She was still weary of technology, still slow to learn how to use each new invention.

"Hello? This is Seth."

"It's me. I found him," she said.

"Is he with you now? Do you have it?" he asked.

Miranda sighed and shook her head, as if Seth could see her reaction through the phone.

"No. There were...extenuating circumstances. But, I have his license plate number and I know his name."

"Better than nothing. Give it to me, I'll see what I can find out," he offered.

"Richard Ryan. He's American. His motorcycle is an orange and white YZ-250, plate number 785HZ6."

"I should have something for you by tonight," he assured her. He scribbled down the information and put it in his shirt pocket. If the bike was registered in France, he might be able to get an address. He might look for passport information, but he would have to get outside help for that. He laughed to himself, 'perhaps I'll just thumb the white pages.'

"Thanks Seth," she clicked her phone shut and put it back in the storage box of the center console.

It was going to be daylight soon, and she needed to rest. She locked up her car and went to the front desk, actually more like a kiosk, to rent a room. She paid the desk clerk and took the old discolored key from him. She unlocked the door to room 16 and went in. The accommodations were old, stained with cigarette smoke and motor oil. She winced in mock pain. 'As long as there are thick curtains and a lock on the door, I suppose I can't complain' she thought. She went to the mirror mounted on the wall above the dresser. It was cracked along the bottom left corner and coated with a sticky brownish film. Nicotine. She combed her hair with her fingers and stared at herself for a moment. She examined the hole in her shirt. Remembering the pain in her back as the bullet made its exit, she took off her coat and looked at it, disgusted.

"My favorite damn jacket. Ruined," she said while she fingered the ragged edges of the bullet hole.

She tossed the jacket on the dresser and climbed slowly onto the bed. A sudden chill made her shiver...the hair on her back and neck stood on end. There was a familiar heaviness to the air. She got back out of bed and went to the only window in the room, next to the front door. She pulled back the thick brown and yellow curtains and scanned the parking lot. Nothing. She looked across the street. The sky was cloudy and there were no streetlights beside the neon glow of the hotel sign, making the street very dark. Shadows ran into one another. Motion in the overgrown grass and weeds at the side of the rode drew her attention. She thought she had caught His scent when she walked to the front desk from her car. She had hoped she was wrong. But when she saw through the grass and hedge a gleaming pair of red eyes flash for a moment and disappear, she knew she wasn't.

**--Paris, May 1st 2,000 - 8am--**

Dana gave Richie a ride back to the bar so he could retrieve his bike. He was relieved that it hadn't been stolen or towed.

"Dana," he said, still sitting next to her in the car. "You've been really great. I can't thank you enough, for everything."

"I told you dear, it's my pleasure. Our kind can use as many friends as we can get." she smiled.

"Yeah."

"Richie, if you need anything at all, call me." she said, firmly.

"I will. Thanks."

Richie leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before getting out of the car and climbing on his bike. It took a couple of kicks for it to start up. White smoke rushed out of the tail pipe, briefly. He put on his helmet and peeled out into the street.

He pulled up the ramp and parked his motorcycle on the deck of MacLeod's barge. The wind had picked up a bit. Rain swelled clouds loomed over the city. He shivered; the cold wind stung his cheeks. Once inside, he shed his coat and headed straight for the kitchen. Dana had done a good job of stuffing him during his brief stay, but he had wanted to get going early so skipped breakfast all together that morning. Mac didn't tend to keep the refrigerator stocked while he expected to be gone and Richie hadn't had the motivation to buy groceries yet. He settled for a can of tuna fish and a cup of coffee. Neither were fare typical to his personal menu, but it was good enough. Sipping his coffee, he thought about the encounter at Le Blues Bar. Obviously, that woman had some connection to the black sword he had found in that weird cellar. But how? And how did she know it was him who took it?

"Must have had security cameras," he complained, rolling his eyes.

But now what? If the cellar wasn't abandoned and the sword really was hers, then he was wrong to keep it from her. But most people would just call the police to handle it, not go out and try to find the thief themselves. It still seemed like there was something else going on. Something inevitably dirty. His thoughts shifted again to the night he found the sword and the something that chased him down. What was that thing? Richie still felt an icy dread at just the thought of the formless black mass that had chased him that night. All black, but for the red eyes...literally flying after him.

"Maybe I should call Mac," he suggested to himself. "No, bad idea. Either he'll think I've gone back to stealing for a living, or he'll think I'm going nuts...or both. I can handle this. I'll just find out who this lady is and everything will get worked out. The "thing", well, it was probably just my imagination or an animal or something. No biggie," he tried to convince himself. He stretched out on the sofa and turned on one of the satellite movie channels. Richie yawned and rubbed his eyes. He and Dana had stayed up talking most of the night. Neither of them had slept more than three hours. He flipped through channels for a few minutes before deciding on a movie. He fell asleep watching "Predator".

**--Paris, May 1st 2,000 - 9:30pm --**

She was there. So close. But he would deal with her later. His focus was on that boy. How long had it been? Decades? Centuries? Longer? The cool wet air was like a lover's kiss on his mud caked skin. The boy he thought. He could feel him still, wisps of the boy's thoughts penetrated his own. Electricity excited every molecule in his body. More he begged to himself. Again he followed the main road west. The lights, city lights, were brighter; closer than before. A strange acrid odor permeated the air. The scent of wet pavement and humans drowned it out as he finally reached the edge of the city. He stood there for minutes. Paris he thought. He recognized the banks of the Seine, the ancient foot bridges and old stone houses. But it was so...big. A strange flaming tower thrust skyward near the center of the city. What he assumed must be carriages of some sort were loud and most annoying. They smelled bad and their growls and shrieks hurt his ears.

Hunger clouded his mind. It was destroying any thought that could not lead to its satisfaction. His driving goal. And it would settle for no less than that which it craved. No stringy whore or wandering drunkard would do. Not even noble lords and ladies would do. No. He must have whatever this young man carried inside him. It was like pure energy was pumped into him...and he would not be without it. The beast would not settle.

He heard a rumble coming toward him and jumped into the shadow of a stone house, just to his left. The scent hit him first, then delight as he saw a very familiar orange machine with a deliciously familiar captain directing it ride pass within a few feet of him. He couldn't believe his hunt was turning out so well, so fast! He would not question his good fortune; no smart man ever would. He kept to the shadows and followed his boy. He would wait, just a little longer. The right moment would present itself soon. He was sure of it. The beast was so very sure of it.

**9:45pm**

She cursed and fumbled with the phone ringing impatiently in her hand. Driving and answering a mobile phone should be considered as an Olympic sport, to ask her about it.

"Hello?" she huffed.

"Mira...I have an address." Seth told her, proud of his apparent skill as a sleuth.

"Good, great...what is it?" Patience had never been a virtue of hers. Most likely never would be.

"It turns out, our Mr. Ryan was a resident of Paris, not too long ago. Wouldn't have been so easy to find him, but he was arrested here a couple years ago and later released. I was able to get the address of his legal guardian at the time from his arrest record. They have since moved but they never sold the place. The owner, a Mr. MacLeod, just pays a caretaker. I bet Ryan has a key to the place and stays there when he's in town."

"Alright, give me the address then and I'll check it out."

"It's actually a barge...like a house boat. It's at pier 8 along the river, close to St. Michael's."

"I know where that is. Thank you Seth. I'll keep you posted."

She smiled. Progress.

She found the barge quickly. There were lights on inside the boat. She parked her car a few streets down. She didn't want to tip Ryan off that she had found him. Miranda approached slowly, silently. There didn't seem to be anyone around. The boat creaked, the river current rocked it gently back and forth. She crept up the ramp, peered into the porthole style windows. The television was off and no sign of Richard Ryan, or the black sword. There was an alarm system, but it appeared to be turned off as well. She grabbed the handle of the door hatch and pushed until the lock gave way. When she opened the door, she smirked at the dead bolt bent forward and the broken strike plate on the floor.


	2. Fight or Flight

**Paris, May 1st - 10:30pm**

He was bored and nervous. Richie had been riding aimlessly around the city for about an hour, thinking about the past few days. The woman looking for the sword seemed the most immediate threat. She tracked him down once. He was sure she could do it again. Would do it again. She'd probably be less verbal at their next encounter. His fighting skills had improved over the years. Swordsmanship, martial arts and good old fashioned street brawling were all things an Immortal relies on to stay alive. Richie knew that. He was pretty sure that if it came to blows, he would come out on top. He was trained, and an Immortal. What did he have to worry from one mortal woman? _Well, she could shoot me first. There's that. Or she could be one of those creepy rich people who knows every style of martial arts on the planet. That guy that shot me the other night could very well been one of her thugs. She probably had a vest or something and told the guy to just start blasting if things weren't going her way._

And what about the "shadow", as he had labeled it in his own mind? He shook his head, laughing. _Don't be stupid Richie. There is a perfectly good explanation for..._

"Holy shit!" Richie swirved the bike, barely able to keep it balanced. In the middle of the street, just ten feet or so in front of him was a man, ragged faded black clothes, his face withered and sunken. But those eyes. Two burning coals mounted in deep sunken eye sockets. Their shoulders brushed as he skid past him. Fear welled up in Richie's chest, his heart raced and he broke into a cold sweat. He slid the bike sideways and stopped. The man had turned and was walking toward him. His glowing eyes never moved from Richie's face. Under his helmet, his mouth gaped open, eyes wide as saucers.

"Fuck this!" he cursed, turning his bike and pulling the throttle back until it vibrated in protest. Parked cars blurred together as he passed. In his rear view he watched the man grow smaller as he gained more distance. He had gone less than three blocks when the space between them stopped growing apart and the man, no...not a man...the "shadow", was after him and gaining fast. The bike whipped around the corner of the next street, tires squealed leaving long black marks on the asphalt. Richie looked over his shoulder. It was catching up...reaching out for him. The monster's emaciated fingers just barely missed the back of his seat.

"Almost home, almost home, almost home," Richie chanted. Somehow he thought if he could make it home he would be safe. If he could get onto the barge, he could lock himself in. Maybe pull the boat out from the dock. He would have a phone...he could call for help. He had to get home. He was staying ahead of it, just barely. City lights reflected off of the river. He could see the silhouette of the barge a couple of hundred yards away. Even though he would probably end up breaking his leg, he jumped from the bike halfway up the ramp. The bike hit the wall and sputtered to a stop. Richie lunged for the door handle, the door swung open without even having to twist the knob. It didn't register in his mind. His only concern was escaping the shadow thing. Panicked, he spun and slammed the door shut, barricaded it with his body. The creature beat and scratched at the metal door.

Miranda rose from the sofa and walked toward the terrified young man.

"What...what the fuck are you...AAH!", he yelled. The door began to buckle and creak. The hinges were breaking apart.

"Well, I was going to ambush you and get what I came for by hook or by crook..." she came to the door and helped him hold it shut. "I think that plan just got flushed."

"You don't seem too concerned...OOMPH...that there is an insane flying demon guy trying to get in here and kill me...UGH!"

"Grace under fire?" she replied sheepishly.

"UNH...somehow I think there's more to it than that....ACK!"

"Yeah...well I don't think right now is a good time...we both need to get out of here or we're dog meat, ok kid?" she snapped.

They both look up at the last remaining hinge just as it burst apart. They both fell backward and hit the ground hard, the heavy metal door followed and landed on top of them. Miranda pushed the door off of them and launched it at the creature, knocking him down.

"Jesus!" Richie yelled.

"Come on!" she grabbed Richie's arms and pulled him up with her. By the time they were standing, so was the shadow man. A low growl rumbled from his chest. Clawed hands held out to his sides, purposeful, menacing. He leapt for them. Miranda half pushed, half threw Richie across the room toward the only full size windows on the boat. He tumbled over the coffee table and rolled onto the floor.

"GO!" she ordered. Her meaning was clear. Richie pulled his arms in front of his face and jumped through the windows and landed on the deck of the barge. Looking back, he saw the monster jump at her, enraged. Grappling each other, each slung the other into walls, furniture, book cases. He caught a final glimpse at her face before he jumped off the edge of the boat onto the pier. Her eyes, once pale blue had become the same fire red as the shadow's.

He ran backwards a few seconds, still watching the creature and the strange woman fighting. Brakes chirped, an engine revved. Richie spun on his heels. A deep blue BMW had stopped just inches behind him. The car doors swung open. Two men rushed out of the back seat and grabbed Richie.

"Hey! Get off me!" he kicked and twisted.

"Shut up!" one spat at him. Quite unceremoniously, he was shoved into the back seat. The car pulled slowly away toward the city.

**Paris, May 3rd 2,000 - 10:45 am**

Light glinted off the tip of Duncan's hand forged Japanese Katana. It lead him through the doorway, cautiously. Outside, Richie's riding helmet floated in the water, current passing it back and forth between the hull of the boat and the stonework that supported the edge of the dock.

"Richie?" he called. Duncan was supposed to meet his friend, the man who he had cared for like his own family, and they were going to fly back to Washington together. Anyone could see something was wrong. Missing door, broken windows. Pretty obvious. The boat was trashed. Broken glass and wood littered the floor. On the wall and sofa, smears of blood. Drops of it dried on the floor.

"No...can't be..." he whispered, fearing the worst. But there was no body...his bike wasn't there...not as much blood as he would expect if someone had been beheaded...he couldn't be sure

All he could be sure of was that there was one hell of a fight. Involving whom, and the outcome of the battle...he only hoped whatever had happened, Richie had managed to keep his head.

Nothing had been taken, it wasn't a robbery. There were a few of what looked to be slash marks on the sofa and the wall. Too jagged to be from a sword. They almost looked like...claw marks. How could that be? No animal large or strong enough to do this kind of damage existed in Paris outside of a zoo. Deeply unsettled, Duncan called Amanda. Maybe she had seen him. Maybe she knew what was going on. No answer. There were no other mutual friends in France he could call on.

"Joe," he said. Richie's Watcher must have seen what happened, and Joe could find out exactly what that was. He dialed his number, forgetting about the time difference between France and the West Coast of the US. A very tired, very put out Joe Dawson answered the phone.

"Hey Joe, it's Duncan."

"This had better be very, VERY important."

"It is. I'm at my barge. There was a fight here and I can't find Richie. We were supposed to meet here this morning and catch a flight back to the US."

"And you want me to ask if Richie's Watcher knows what's up, right?"

"I'm sorry to do this to you Joe. I know things have been strained since...well..."Duncan said, apologetically.

"Yeah yeah...it's ok. I care about Richie too. I'll see what I can find out." Joe told him, sleepily.

"Thank you Joe."


	3. South of Heaven

–Sorry about yet another cliffhanger. I promise, I won't take so long to update this time! Well, I hope you like chapter 3. Keep in mind, this is a rough draft so detail, style and dialogue will eventually be refined! So again, if something doesn't make sense or seems a bit off, let me know! I will be editing the story once it is complete! ::Evil:: --

Murphy's Law, well known to most, states that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. The past three days had offered more than sufficient evidence as to the veracity of that law for young Richie Ryan. His head throbbed. He could hear the blood rushing in his veins just behind the incessant ringing brought on by the several strikes to the skull. When he tried to bring his hands up, he found that they were trapped. Metal clanked against metal. _Oh, shit_, he cursed in his mind. Richie's eyes flew open; his head whipped around as he frantically surveyed the room. Hanging on bare wire from the ceiling was the obligatory single, bare light bulb that illuminated the small, basement like room. The walls were cinder block, the floor solid concrete. There was a single, solid metal door. Windows had been sealed shut by red bricks, giving the illusion of huge spots of blood on the dull grey walls. Dirt and bits of garbage were the only things present other than himself. It was cold, but not freezing, and the air was wet. It smelled like mildew and wet dirt.

He was sitting on a short bench, his hands were cuffed behind his back and attached to a metal ring at the top of a thick metal post embedded in the concrete floor. His legs were bent with his ankles passing under the bench and attached with leg irons to a ring at the bottom of the same metal post.

"This can't be good," he muttered to himself. He couldn't remember anything after being pulled into a car by two big thugs except when they cracked him in the back of the head, mostly to shut him up he supposed. That's what usually happened whenever he was kidnaped or anything like that.

Time was vacuous in that place, alone. Had it been a full day? Or even two or three? There was no way for Richie to determine. His wrists were rubbed raw from pulling at the handcuffs, struggling constantly, not allowing his body to heal the self inflicted wounds. His mouth was painfully dry and his stomach roared with hunger. A few more days and he would be dead of either dehydration or starvation, whichever came first, only to come back to life and do it all over again, if no one ever came for him. The boy's heart sank just thinking about it; spending an eternity trapped alone in an endless cycle of starvation, death and rebirth. Just when he thought he might actually break down into tears, something caught his attention. Voices.

The latch clicked as the door handle swung smoothly down and the door opened. Two men in dark suits entered silently, a third followed behind them pushing a cloth covered metal cart. He was almost relieved that he was no longer alone. Almost. One man was tall, over six feet, wearing a charcoal colored suit. His counterpart was the shortest of the them. Dark haired. Sullen eyes. He wore a solid black suit and shirt. The tender of the metal cart was about Richie's size, also in a grey suit.

"Good day, Mr. Ryan," the smaller of the three men said. "We have a lot to talk about, so let's just get straight to it, shall we?"

"Who the hell are you," Richie croaked.

"None of your business, freak!" the tall one snapped.

"Hold your temper," the small one said calmly. "There is no need to validate our authority here. It's perfectly clear who is in charge, am I right Mr. Ryan," his eyes gleamed mischievously; a small smile played on his lips.

"Screw you buddy," he spat back.

"Indeed. Now, as I said, down to business," he replied.

The cart-man lifted the canvas cloth from the tray to reveal an intimidating array of medical instruments. Richie sucked in a short gasp. His pulse quickened when he saw the tray filled with scalpels, needles, clamps...

_Holy shit, is that a bone saw!?_ he screamed inwardly.

Adam arrived in Paris in the late morning. Throughout the flight he had retreated into his memories of atrocities past. It did nothing to improve his demeanor, to be sure. A familiar and terrifying coldness threatened to retake him. Emotional walls that he had fought so long to tear down were rebuilding themselves at a frightening pace. He didn't want to lose himself to the monster he once was. It would be so easy to lose control; to slide back into the role he held for over two millennia. And in some primal way, he would enjoy it. That was what truly frightened him.

Methos resolved himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Not much time was wasted at the hotel, where he dropped off his bags and changed clothes. Too many things needed to be done, and they all required immediate attention. First order of business, he decided, was to find Dana Shea, the person Richie was last seen with. Breaking into the Watcher's database was relatively easy. Dana's file was easy to find as well. Methos jotted down her address on the little notepad on the night table and turned off his computer.

"About time I dropped in on you, old friend," he commented to the note.

Fortunately, Dana Shea's apartment building was fairly close to his hotel, so he didn't bother getting a taxi. A brisk ten minute walk and he was right in front of her door. Buildings in that part of town were old, not one newer than 150 years. Even so, all were renovated and fitted with new electrical lines and some, like Dana's building, had intercoms put in when the row homes were turned into apartments.

Looking at the intercom box, there were two buttons, but only one name. The other sticker had only the letters "DS".

"Number two it is," Methos said as he pressed the top floor apartment's buzzer.

"Hello, who is it?" the speaker buzzed.

"Dana Shea?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Good to hear your voice again, pixie," he said smiling, hoping she would remember his old pet name for her.

"Thomas?" she breathed.

"Actually, it's Adam now..."

The intercom clicked loudly. He heard quick footsteps coming down stairs behind the door. The buzz of another Immortal washed over him like cool water. He already knew she was there, so it didn't elicit the same anxious feeling as sensing an unknown quickening. The locks snapped open, then the door. Dana stood staring at him for a moment, dazed. Tears welled up in her eyes and she jumped at Adam, nearly knocking him over as she threw her arms around him.

"Rowan told me you lost your head," she half sobbed, hugging him tighter.

"Well, Rowan never was terribly reliable when it came to gossip," he laughed.

"And I'm glad for it!" she said. Finally she released her death grip on her former lover and showed him inside. "Come in, come in!" she said excitedly.

"Well, you sure know how to make an old man feel welcome," Methos grinned.

"Welcome? Dear heart I thought you were dead for the past 200 years. Welcome is hardly sufficient a word!" she replied.

"I'm sorry for that. I had to leave so suddenly...I wish I had been able to say goodbye. At least you would have known that I was alright." he apologized.

"It would have been nice," she winked. "How did you find me?"

"Oh, I have my ways," he looked down at the floor. "But...I wish I was here just to see you. The truth is...I came here because I need your help."

"My help? How so?" she asked.

"A friend of mine has gone missing. You were the last person I know of that saw him. I think he is a lot of trouble."

"Wait...you don't mean Richie do you?" her worry clear on her delicate face.

"Yes. Richie Ryan. No one seems to know where he is. The place he was staying is trashed...there was evidence of a fight...blood. Please Dana, is there anything you know that might help me find him?"

"Saints alive...I knew something was going to happen...I should have made him stay here," she said, rubbing her temple lightly.

"Then you do know he's in trouble."

"Yes," she sighed. "A few nights ago, he was at this bar. There was a woman there threatening him. She wanted a sword that Richie had taken. He thought the place he found it was abandoned, that it didn't belong to anybody. Apparently he was wrong. But...he didn't want to return it to her. I don't really understand why. Something about not trusting that it was actually hers...I couldn't convince him otherwise."

"Do you know the woman's name? Where I can find her?"

"No...there was another man there. He shot Richie and the woman. I was barely able to get Richie and myself to safety. I don't know what happened to her after that."

"Damn. Where did he find the sword?"

"An old root cellar, out in a field in the country...not far outside the city."

Methos thought hard. French countryside, root cellar, sword...it seemed familiar...

"I think I know where that is...and it makes sense that she would be involved!" he realized. "Thank you. I wish I could stay, but I have to find this woman, and hopefully Richie as well."

"Wait, I'm coming with you," she got up from the couch.

"No, Dana please, you can't get involved. This is much more complicated than it seems. I don't want you to get hurt too," he said firmly.

"Thom...sorry. Adam. Richie is my friend now too. I can help. I need to help."

"I'm sorry, it's just...there's so much you don't know."

"Then tell me!" she demanded. "Tell me what I'm getting myself into so I can be prepared. You know full well that I can handle myself. I am already involved. I won't back out on my friend."

Methos sighed. "Dana...I can't. I'm sorry. You must promise me you will stay here."

"I can't do that. I won't stand by and do nothing. You know me Adam. I just can't."

"I know," he said, rising from the couch. She rose with him. Only inches apart, Methos reached quickly into his coat and in one smooth motion pulled out his black handled hunting knife and buried it in Dana's chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered as she fell to the floor, staring into his eyes, shocked.

_What is that about you always hurt the ones you love? _He wiped the blood from the blade on a cup towel from the kitchen. _Better I stab you in the heart now than let you lose your head by getting caught up in this._ Methos left the apartment calmly. Quietly. He had a pretty good idea where this "abandoned" root cellar was. There was an old mansion just outside of the city that he had been to once before. A mansion he had hoped he would never have to go to again. A mansion with a root cellar just out of sight of the house. But as things stood, it was his best bet on finding Richie, and on finder _her_. And then there was this sword. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his stomach knotted. There was a sword, one like no other. He could only hope it wasn't the same one Richie had taken. Because if it was...things were about to get a whole lot worse.

No one answered the door after pushing the buzzer five times. Duncan was about to turn and go back to the barge, since obviously no one was home. He had hoped he could find out more about Richie's activities the past few days, maybe get some bearing on where he could be. There were no other real leads so far, and as each second went by MacLeod became more worried.

Click, "Unh....hello?" a weary female voice answered, at last.

Duncan's hand flew to the call box, "Yes, hello? Ms. Shea?"

"Who is this?" the shaky Irish tinged voice called back.

"My name is Duncan MacLeod. I was wondering if I could speak to you for a moment," he said.

"MacLeod? Yes, yes, come up," the speaker crackled. The door buzzed and MacLeod entered the converted row home. He climbed the stairs and sucked in a breath as he sensed the other Immortal.

The slim woman met him at the door, her white blouse ripped and the front mostly turned red. "You will excuse me while I change Mr. MacLeod?"

"Aye, of course. Uh, what happened?"

"A friend of mine has a funny way of making a point," she answered angrily.

"Some friend," he replied.

"Sometimes I wonder," her voice was muffled through the bedroom door. A few minutes later she came out wearing a soft crimson sweater. "So, Mr. MacLeod,"

"Please, call me Duncan," he interrupted.

"Duncan. I suppose you're here to ask me if I know where Richie is?"

"Well, yes. How did you know?" he asked, surprised.

"Must be in fashion today. I'll tell you what I told Adam, but I must insist that you don't stab me when I insist on coming with you to find Richie."

"Adam? Adam Pierson? He was here? He stabbed you?!"

"Yes, I guess so, yes and yes, in that order,"she answered dryly.

Duncan just rolled his eyes. "I am so going to kick his ass when I catch up with him..."

"Take a number love," she laughed. "Well, let's get to it then. I'll tell you what I know, then you can tell me how Connor is doing on the way to wherever we end up going to look for Richie."

_I think I'm going to like this lassie...I think I'm going to like her a lot._

They sat down in the kitchen and she began the whole tale again.

Darkness and pain. Large pools of blood and red footprints spread across the floor like a scene out of a bad horror movie. His eyes were swollen shut. The bones in his legs bent in unnatural directions. Clamps stuck out of his chest and arms, holding the deep wounds open, his body unable to heal them. He had already been killed twice. Come back twice. He could feel his body slipping into the third. His interrogators decided to take a break while he recovered from the latest torture session. Richie was terrified. They knew what he was. They knew how to kill him, they made that much clear at the beginning. What wasn't clear was their true intentions. They had already spent hours asking questions he was not able to answer. Questions about the strange man-creature and the woman that was after him. About the Quickening, how it worked, where Immortals came from. Only one question could he have answered, but at the same time could not, unwilling to give up his friend to these people. He meant it when he told Methos he would die before giving him up to anyone. No matter what. It was a promise he knew he had to keep at all costs. It was true they didn't get along much. Methos thought Richie was impulsive and reckless. Richie thought Methos was a stuffy old coward. They were friends, nonetheless. Also, he understood how important it was to keep his secret. Not just to keep him safe, but to keep his Quickening away from the less humane Immortals. 5,000 years of training and experience would give another Immortal a deadly edge, and in the wrong Immortal it would be twice as deadly.

Thoughts of what his 'hosts' would ask next, what method of persuasion they would employ to tear the answers he did not have from him, made him convulse with fear. Bloody tears ran hot down his battered cheeks.

_I have to get out of here...I have to...someone will find me...oh God, someone please find me..._he prayed as he slipped into temporary oblivion.


	4. Out comes the Evil

--Out Comes the Evil--

"Miranda! I was starting to think you weren't coming back!," Seth exclaimed taking the dirt caked woman into his arms. "What the hell happened!?"

"Kirin followed the kid back to his house boat. We ended up in a bit of a scuffle, " she replied.

"A bit? You've been gone two days and look like something out of 'Attack of the Mud People'," he joked.

"Ha ha," she sneered, picking dried mud off of her torn clothes, leaving a trail of dirty clumps behind her as she walked from the front door to the bathroom.

"What about Ryan?" Seth asked.

"He got away. I couldn't find the sword. I need the kid alive so he can tell me where he's hidden it. Looking for it on our own will take too long, if we could find it at all," she answered.

Seth nodded thoughtfully, "I agree. And Kirin?"

"Knocked into the river when I threw a motorcycle at him. I don't know where he went after that," comfortable with Seth's presence, she stripped her ruined clothes off and turned on the shower. "I was losing the fight, badly," she winced as she inspected a gouge that hadn't fully healed yet. "If I didn't get out of there he probably would have dusted me. Why do you think it took me so long to get back here? I found an abandoned house and rested there. The injuries were so bad, I didn't wake up until about three hours ago."

"Shit. Wait...so where did all the mud come from?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to imagine how she got so dirty if they were fighting in a house boat or on the dock.

"Battery died in the car and in my phone. Had to walk home, and..." she sighed, slightly embarrassed, "a car ran through a mud puddle and I got soaked."

Seth lowered his head and snickered.

"It's not funny!" Miranda snapped.

"Yes it is," Seth answered, and laughed his way out of the bathroom.

Miranda stepped into the hot shower. The water stung her skin, but was relaxing as well. She had lost a lot of time, sleeping the past two days away. She would be lucky if she could catch up with young Mr. Ryan now. She shook her head. It never occurred to her that getting her property back would be so difficult. After all, he was just a punk kid and she was...well, what she was. The thought did dawn on her that he was not normal. Most people don't carry swords around with them, yet he had one strapped to his motorcycle. Maybe he just likes swords she thought. No...there was something more. The other woman, outside the bar. He reacted to her so oddly, as if she were the threat, and not Miranda. Too familiar...disturbing. Then there was the strange man that shot them both, yet he seemed fine back on the barge. I wonder she said to herself as she dried her hair and put on her cherry blossom print black silk robe.

From her bedroom she heard the doorbell. She quickly finished dressing and went out to the parlor to see what was going on.

"You're not welcome here!" Seth snarled to the tall, dark haired man standing just outside the doorway. "Leave and I won't kill you," he growled.

"My business is not with you Seth. I need to speak with my sister," the man answered.

"Who is there, Seth?" Miranda called as she came around the corner. She gasped when she saw him, standing there arms crossed, glaring at her friend. "Methos..." she whispered.

"Mana. How nice to see you again," Methos greeted coldly.

She stepped closer, stopping just behind Seth's left shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" she asked without emotion.

"I'm looking for someone and I believe you know where I can find him," Methos replied.

"Really? And why is that?" she snapped.

Methos calmly pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to her. "Oh, no reason," he said sarcastically.

She opened the envelope and looked at the four glossy photographs inside. "Where did these come from?" she asked angrily, still staring at the last picture, clearly showing her at the scene of the other night's events at Le Blues Bar.

"That's not important. I want to know what you've done with Richie," he said in a steady but clearly angry tone. He unfolded his arms and stepped closer to the pair.

Her head snapped up and her icy blue eyes met his, "I've done nothing to your friend!" she nearly yelled, insulted at the accusation. "I don't know where he is. Now, if that is all you came for, I expect you will be leaving. Now." she snarled.

He moved as fast as his body would carry him, pushed Seth out of the way and grabbed Miranda by the throat, pushing her against the wall. As her head met the plaster, Methos pulled a sharpened wooden rod from his other coat pocket and pressed it against her chest, perfectly in line with her heart. He pushed it in slowly, stopping just as it broke her skin. Miranda hissed, her sharp canine teeth became elongated, more on the top than the bottom. Her cool blue eyes shone red with anger.

"Ah, there's my little devil," Methos smiled. "Now, tell me what you want with Richie and where he is, or I will drive this thing into that shriveled little heart of yours," he demanded, his voice sinister and in some small way evil. His voice taking on a deadly timbre.

Seth stood up fast and grabbed Methos' arm, broke it in three places and slammed him against the opposite wall. He stalked toward Methos, who was gritting his teeth, holding his limp arm against his chest. He had dropped the stake when the man broke his ulna and elbow.

"Not too bright, are you, meat," Seth taunted, his own fangs bared. He kicked the old Immortal hard in the stomach. Methos lurched forward and spat out a big glob of blood.

"Now there's an idea," Seth said cheerfully. He pulled Methos to him and yanked his head to the side. Methos struggled and yelled as Seth bit down hard on his neck, fangs stinging as they sank deep into the Immortal's flesh. Hot blood rushed into Seth's mouth, down his throat as he swallowed the salty, metallic fluid gulp after gulp. It was sweeter than normal blood. It almost tingled and a strange euphoria washed over him. He stopped well before he normally would have, his head spinning. It felt like electricity was coursing through every nerve, painful but addictive, it was as if pure energy filled him. Methos dropped to the floor like a rag doll, but still conscious. Seth sank to his knees, mouth agape, moaning in ecstasy. Miranda, her fangs put away and her eyes back to their arctic hue, approached both of them and shook her head.

"Idiot," she huffed. She picked Methos up under his arms, effortlessly, as if he were no more cumbersome than a child, and all but carried him to the living room. She pulled his coat off of him and lay him on the red sofa. The wounds on his neck had already healed. She pulled his long sword out from the lining of his duster and leaned it against the wall.

"Now then, brother,"she spoke as she rolled him on his side. She pulled handcuffs out of the side table drawer, which were used rarely but had proven themselves useful before, and secured his wrists together behind him. "I'll make you a deal. You tell me what you know about Mr. Ryan and I will consider letting him live after he has served his purpose. After all, any friend of yours..." she smiled viciously, but only for a moment.

Miranda's face relaxed, the corners of her mouth drooped into a frown. How she wished they could put the past behind them, where it belonged. She stroked his hair, softly, anger subsiding for the moment. She was still angry at her brother for many things, not the least of which was trying to put a stake through her heart the last time they saw each other. But she knew, he had every reason to despise her, after what she had done.

–Flashback...Spain 1635 AD–

"Mana, I insist that you come to the wedding," Methos said, firmly to his sister, holding her delicate hands in his.

Mana sighed and shook her head. "You know I don't do well at social functions...especially with mortals."

"You are the only family that I have. The only family I can even remember having. Real family, anyway," Methos tilted his head. "It would also mean a lot to Sarah if you attended," he said, referring to his fiancee.

"I don't think it's a good idea," the woman insisted.

"Nonsense," he smiled.

It had been a very long time since she had seen her brother genuinely happy. She didn't want to risk what he had found with Sarah. They both knew the risks of putting Mana in the middle of a group of mortals. Every second of her 'life', she fought for control, the beast inside of her always lusting for the kill. She was old, even by Vampiric standards, and rarely lost that control. But it was not unheard of, and the more people were around the harder it was.

Methos adored his sister, and she loved him, but there was no denying there was a growing rift between them. The more active in mortal affairs he became, the farther away she stayed. Methos had done away with his murderous ways long ago. Mana was incapable of such a change. She was a killer, through and through. Every muscle in her body, every ability bestowed upon her by her wicked blood, was designed for that one thing. Each night when she awoke, the first thought on her mind was to hunt, to kill, to drink the salty-sweet blood from her prey. Each day when she went to sleep, her last thought was the same. Maintaining a normal life was relatively easy for him, and nearly impossible for her. Many times she had tried to cut all ties with her brother, as much for his safety as her own sanity. But she found that he was a stubborn old mule and simply would not allow such a thing. He didn't remember his life before he won his first Quickening, she did. Most Immortals had no one left from their original lifetime, he did. He loved her, as every brother loves their sibling. That was not something he was willing to just let go of, regardless of how difficult maintaining the relationship was.

She decided that after the wedding, she would stay away for a while, let him have his normal life for at least a few years until his beloved bride eventually withered away and turned to dust, as all mortals are destined to do. "Fine...I'll go," she finally conceded.

Methos hugged her tight, "Thank you," he whispered in her ear.

Two days later, the wedding guests were arriving steadily at the Cathedral in the center of Madrid. Fortunately thick clouds masked the sun, enough for Mana to safely venture out for a few hours. Most of the service would be indoors, extending the amount of time she could be active during the day. There were at least 200 guests in attendance, dressed in fine silks and taffeta. She stayed in the back of the Cathedral, trying not to make too much contact with the humans. Hunger stirred inside of her regardless, hunger that she forced down to the pit of her stomach.

"Elena," the father of the bride nodded to Mana, calling her by her most recent name. He dipped his knee down slightly and kissed her hand. "I was so happy when Michael told us you would be in attendance," the grey haired man smiled.

"What sort of sister would I be not to see my brother off," she feigned sincerity. "Your daughter is a lovely woman and I am certain they will be a fine pair."

"You are too kind madame," he bowed. "If you will excuse me," he bowed again and turned to greet the other guests, many who were Lords and Ladies of the Royal Spanish Court.

A while later, the guests all rose from the pews as the organ player began a wedding march. Methos wrung his hands nervously as he stood at the altar. The entire congregation was awed when Sarah appeared from the rear of the church, her arm interlocked with her father's. Each step was smooth and graceful. Even Mana was struck by the girl's grace and beauty. Sarah reached the altar and Methos took her small hands into his. The service was long, as most Catholic services were, but as they kissed their first kiss as husband and wife, the entire church exploded in applause and cheers, and even joyful tears. The clouds outside had broken and sunlight filtered through the stained glass, as if the sun itself was celebrating the union along with them. Mana pressed herself into the shadows, dreading the next few moments when she knew the huge oak doors would swing open and pure, deadly sunlight would fill the Cathedral. She shot a nervous glance to her brother, but he was swept up in the event, laughing, holding his new wife around the waist with one arm they strode quickly toward the doors. Mana tried to back into the darkest corner, but the wedding guests flowed like ocean tides and pushed her toward the aisle. Sarah's father hurried to her and grabbed Mana's hand.

"Come dear, don't be so shy! It is time to celebrate!" he shouted, taking the vampire around her waist and swinging her even closer to the doors, just as they burst open and unfiltered sunlight flooded the church.

Everyone stopped when Mana let out a paralyzing scream, smoke rising from her exposed face and hands. She shot backward and scrambled to cover herself with her cloak. Methos gasped and turned to her. "Oh...no...Elena!" he rushed to her side, taking her hood and quickly covering her head.

"God...I'm sorry..." he breathed. "Are you alright," he said, tending to his sister, not thinking about the horrified faces of the wedding guests and what they must be thinking.

"What is this!?" the priest shouted, pushing his way through the crowd. "What sort of demon are you to be burned by the sun?"

"She's a witch!" one woman yelled.

"No, no!" another added, "She's a devil!"

"No," the priest finally said, looking down at the smoldering form. "This thing....I have heard of it before, from missionaries in Wallachia. It is a vampire!" he announced.

Methos groaned in frustration. How are we getting you out of this mess? he thought. Both of their heads came up as the sound of multiple swords being pulled from their scabbards echoed from the walls.

"Did you know about this, Michael?" Sarah's father asked firmly. When he didn't answer, he asked again loudly, "DID YOU KNOW??"

Methos stood and looked defiantly into his father-in-law's eyes. "She is my sister, and I love her. Yes. I knew."

The older man stepped back and put the tip of his sword to Methos' chest.

"Father no!" Sarah screamed, running to her husband's side.

"This is no man!" her father shouted. "If his sister be a 'vampire', then he surely must also be some kind of demon!"

"I don't care!" Sarah shouted in return. "He is MY husband and you will not harm him!"

Sarah's two brothers ripped her away from Methos. She kicked and screamed as Methos was surrounded by sword armed men and lead out of the church, his sister pulled behind.

"Get away from me!" Mana screamed, sunlight again touched her hands, burning them badly. She flew back into the church, eyes bright red, fangs bared and growling. Her fingernails grew into sharp claws and she stood feet apart, ready to strike at anyone who came near.

Eight men rushed at her, slashing her as each one closed in. She hissed with each slice through her flesh, batting the men away like flies. Each strike pushed her closer to the edge of her control. She fought hard to maintain her composure, to suppress the monster within. More men joined the battle, more men were thrown against a wall or toppled over the pews. One of the younger men crept up behind her and pushed a dagger deep into her back. In her mind, there was an audible snap as the last vestiges of her humanity was devoured by the inner beast. Mana let out an unholy roar as she took the offensive, grabbing people by head and burying her face in neck after neck. The endless barrage of blades against her skin and bones went unnoticed while she was in her fit of rage. Methos stood in the doorway of the Cathedral, stunned, horrified, held still by two of the congregation also watching helplessly as the groom's sister ripped people apart. Sarah cried, having dropped to the floor screaming when she saw her brother's head roll under one of the long benches.

The rest of the wedding guests fled the church into the safety of the bright sunlight. Only Sarah and her father remained inside, alive. Mana panted, blood dripped from her mouth and hands. Sarah's sobs caught the monster's attention and she darted to the frightened bride, looking down on her, still hungry.

"You stay back, demon!" her father yelled, his own sword at the ready.

Mana tilted her head to the side, as if studying him as a wolf studies and injured lamb before it strikes. The enraged man drove his rapier deep into the vampire's stomach, almost to the hilt. Mana snarled and grabbed his hand, pulling him close to her. Her hand shot out like lightening and dug deep into his chest. When she pulled her hand back out, his still beating heart rested in her bloody palm. The man dropped to the floor, eyes wide with terror and shock. Mana pulled the sword from her belly and sank her fangs into the warm organ.

"Father!" Sarah screamed, scrambling to his lifeless corpse.

"Sarah no! Get out of there!" Methos screamed. Too late.

Mana smiled down at the sobbing girl. She reached her sticky, blood stained hand down and grabbed the bride by her hair. Methos struggled with the two men, finally able to break free of them. He ran to the women, "Stop!" he pleaded.

Mana took the girl in her arms and leapt into the rafters. Sarah screamed for her husband to help her. The vampire bared her fangs in a satanic smile and dug them into the girls neck.

"NO!" Methos screamed, unable to help his beloved wife.

The drained, lifeless corpse fell from the rafters and hit the marble floors with a horrible crack, the girls eyes were still open, seemingly filled with tears of blood. Methos sank to the floor, crying, wishing it all to be a terrible dream. Devilish laughter echoed through the empty church. He could hear his sister leaping from beam to beam in the rafters, probably seeking a suitable resting place for the remainder of the day, now that she'd had her fill. Sorrow quickly turned to blind rage inside the ancient Immortal. He tilted his head back an screamed an ancient war cry. His pulse raced, his muscles tightened. Compassion for his sister's situation was shattered by his anger, his hatred, of the creature that destroyed everything he cared for. His wife was dead, and his sister may be lost forever, destroyed by the horror that was her true vampiric nature. He swore revenge for both losses that day.

–end flashback–

Methos moaned, closed his eyes and slipped quietly into a coma. Seth took more than enough blood to cause the Immortal's body to shut down. Now, they all had but to wait until his body healed. Miranda lowered her head and cried pink blood-tinged tears. Looking down on her brother's flawless face, all the walls she had built up came crashing down. Centuries of regret finally caught up to her.

Outside, Adam Pierson's Watcher wrote frantically in his journal and called his friend, Joe Dawson, even though he knew if the Council found out that not only was he communicating classified information to Dawson but withholding information from them, he would be severely punished. It didn't matter to him, though. Joe was his mentor, and he would break any rule, or all of them, for Joe.


End file.
